Fermata
by claudiapriscus
Summary: A 5.19 coda. Fermata: The prolongation of a tone, chord, or rest beyond its indicated time value.


**Fermata**: _The prolongation of a tone, chord, or rest beyond its indicated time value_

In the end-

In the end, there was...Nevada. It was better than non-existence, but only slightly. Gabriel stood at the edge of a forgotten lake that was nothing but dust and flat, unyielding earth. It went on as far as the eye could see...or would see, if he still had eyes. That made the limitation a little strange. If he'd wanted to, he should have been able to see all the way to Reno. Or better, Vegas. Instead...what he got was desert. Though it was a qualified improvement on what he'd been expecting, which was nothing. There was no afterlife for the angels. It made sense. After all, there was no actual life for angels, either. That's the way it worked. Eternity was supposed to be eternal.

So- none of this was exactly what he'd planned. And even so, maybe he could have had a better exit. The handsome and funny brother, cruelly slain by the dickish and whiny older brother: sure, it had the right tragic vibe, the sort of thing they write epics about but was it really the role he pictured for himself? Not exactly. Knocked off, right before the end? And so easily, too. That's not how it should have ended. He wasn't some random redshirt. He deserved- well. Something more stylish, maybe. And last words, something satiric but profound. _Vae, puto deus fio_ – Vespasian always did have the best lines, though they'd lost something over the last few millenia.

He gazed upwards, in the hope the view would be more interesting. No such luck- it was just blue, blue sky. Not even a cloud for variety. All this psuedo-open space was making him feel paradoxically claustrophobic. He wanted to stretch, and stretch and stretch until he filled everything. And then he wanted to move, and never stop moving. Standing still was too restricting. But there was no where to go.

Really, he hadn't expected to die at all. He'd gotten too used to everything being a game. The little gods and the endless masses of humanity were always amusing. He'd fallen into the role of trickster and the centuries had just flown by. It was a good role. Better than his natural one. And you know, the benefit of dying- if you could call it that- was that it'd be the ultimate escape from the bickering and dread. He'd have been out of it – _heroically_- and not forced to sit on the sidelines, waiting for his family to slaughter each other. Whoever won would have to sit and wallow in the fact that their stupidity had gotten him killed.

So he'd died. And then he lived, which was the kicker. Self-sacrifice that ended in failure was noble. Just plain failing was just pathetic. For one thing, it left you with plenty of time for reflection, which was something he'd successfully avoided for literal eons.

So. Here he was, just hanging out on the beach wearing only what God had given him. Which would never be as fun as it sounded, because- hell. It was obvious that this place wasn't what it seemed. It was the lack of giant craters and general wanton destruction that gave it away. Little advertised fact about being an archangel: Visiting the world in the flesh meant burning oceans and the sinking of continents, as he well knew (through absolutely no fault of his. It was an _accident_, okay?)It basically meant eternity stuck in close quarters with family, which was nice and fine until you got to whose turn it was to do dishes. The lower orders all got posted down below at one time or another, the lucky bastards. It wasn't a big deal for them. But for God's first, vessels were as necessary as they were depressingly rare. To top it off, cramming into a vessel was a process that could best be compared to shoving a camel through the eye of a needle – but harder. And yet here he was, vessel-less, on a beach that continued to exist. He vaguely recognized the area it was modeled after; he'd been here about ten, twelve thousand years ago, but at that time, it'd been one small corner of a damn big lake, which had been dotted by small green islands. It had been pleasant. It was not particularly pleasant now. The beach was endless, but only because there was no longer any water. The former islands had been revealed as sharp, craggy mountains. Overall, it was very...brown.

He looked around for distraction, but sadly the scenery wasn't offering any. Which was probably the point. What it needed was a big shiny casino, but wouldn't you know? It resisted all of his considerable mojo. He'd been rendered _impotent_. Oh, the shame. The agony. The... other thing.

Hmm. It just wasn't the same without an audience.

He gazed out across the beach and sighed. Sort of. The intention was there, but the lack of lungs presented a problem. It was funny how much he missed being physical. In a way, his own little witness protection program had felt like chopping off a few limbs in order to fit into a too-small suit, but he'd gotten used to it. There'd been perks. Oh, had there ever been _perks_.

They made the whole thing worth while. And the role had eventually become familiar and instinctual. Seriously- he'd gone after _Lucifer _with the two-bit illusion trick. Okay, his chances of killing Lucifer still would have been slim to none even if he'd been able to let go of his acquired habits and regained the ancient ones. But Lucifer wouldn't have been able to kill him, either. Probably. Maybe. He was pretty sure, anyway.

But he hadn't. He'd fought like a god...and died like a god. It wasn't all that comforting. It was stupid. And you know, if things had gone like they were supposed to, at least he wouldn't be stuck here brooding about it. Brooding. He hated brooding. It was the mark of those without a sense of humor.

And all because he'd gone slumming for a century or two (or three or four or ten). What was the crime in that? He was supposed to stick around and put up with all the crap back home? Please. But it seemed Someone thought differently. Thus the desert fishbowl he found himself in. The lake that wasn't.

"You couldn't have gone with something a little more subtle? Like actual, literal anvils maybe?" he complained. A breeze stirred across the plain, drawing in its wake a tumble weed or two. It was the only movement he'd seen. "Time out? Really?" he asked the hills. There was no reply. There didn't need to be. It was pretty obvious. Daddy dearest deigned to care, enough to apparently personally resurrect him, but not enough to actually say hello or send a card. "_Sorry you died, get well soon._"

And what was he supposed to make of that? He'd just been mostly minding his business. Why single him out? Well, him and whatshisface, Castiel, if the rumors could be believed, which they probably couldn't. It couldn't be in approval, or he wouldn't be stuck on this (strictly speaking) not-so-godforsaken desert beach. Why not just clean house and be done with it? What was the point? Why now? But that was His _modus operandi_, wasn't it. There was always some grand plan that they were never allowed to understand, everything always covered under 'mysterious ways'.

He knew that if he just played along, just sat quiet for long enough, his part would be revealed. That was just the way it worked. But he didn't feel like playing. For the first time in a long time, he was sick to death of games.


End file.
